


The Funeral Pyre

by Flippedeclipse



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, Choking, Crisis of Faith, Emotional, Feelings Realization, Inspired by Poetry, Islamic References, Loss of Faith, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23037292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flippedeclipse/pseuds/Flippedeclipse
Summary: Love was the funeral pyre upon which he had laid his living body.Where Nadir has a realization and an ensuing crisis of faith.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & The Persian, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Comments: 28
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arabis_Eclipse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabis_Eclipse/gifts).



The first time, I did not know.

Rumours had threaded through the opera house of the disappearance of a kitchen girl, presumably run off with a lover. Gossip like this often spread through the staff, and while most were baseless, this time I confirmed it myself that the girl had disappeared. I waited a day, then two. On the third I knew I could wait no longer.

In the dawnlit hours, when my brethren would be taking their morning Fajr prayers a world away, I descended into the underworld of the opera house. It was the upper reaches of these lower levels that I combed, through the rooms that held the unwanted, forgotten souls of this keep. I knew the chances of finding him so close to the surface were quite slim, but I preferred to avoid the deep maze of catacombs below. Those were his hunting grounds, and I did not yet have a death wish.

The levels that I navigated were the homes of ghosts, both living and inanimate, forgotten by the world above. The wings of the Valkyries, the decorations of Olympus, the exotic jewels of Lakme - all were left to rot here, once so splendid on the stage above, now a lost memory. The rather incapable managers of this house always ordered them to be kept just in case, but that case never came.

I weaved and dug through these graveyards of a kind, littered with musty boxes and splintering sets, nearly cutting myself as I stumbled on the axes used in Don Carlos. I found myself in a room larger than the rest, home to the colossal horse of La Troyens and the further discardings of that cut-short production. It was there that I was found.

“Daroga.” The hissed whisper was nowhere, yet everywhere. By some miracle I did not fright, though a tremor entered my heart.

“Erik,” I responded as calmly as I could manage. My eyes stayed forward, as it would be little use to search for him. He would only be seen if he wished to, after all.

It was only a moment before a ripple of cloth flashed in my periphery, the barest hint, and that is what I turned to. With a flash of alabaster and a twirl of onyx he emerged from the shadows, and I found myself faced with the most real spectre of death, a living visage of Hades himself. Even in the nearly non-existent light there was no mistaking the shriveled skin of his mouth, the bones jutting from the perfect fit of his coat. It was a sight to put fear in any other man. I was no stranger to it, and so I thought myself immune.

I was a fool.

It was the angles of his jaw, I believe, peeking out from the hem of his mask, that gave birth to the coil. My observation had meant to be chaste, but I was suddenly struck by the sheer edge of it, the skin stretched taut, a blue vein working just under the surface. That wicked coil spun and spun around my spine, sharp as a whip, borne of smouldering coal that sparked and spat. It rested its tail in the pit of my belly, in the crux of my soul. 

I was such a fool. I did not realize what it was.

And so like all things I do not immediately understand, I gently shoved it aside, where it would fester. A bad habit, I admit, one that has caused me great misery in the past, of which this would be the greatest.

"Why are you looking for me?" Erik snarled through clenched teeth. I was suddenly awestruck at the sound that came forth from that corpse mouth, more so than usual. For it was dazzling yet deadly; a dichotomy that held its own beauty, one I would never acclimatize to.

I caught myself as my mind wandered and cleared my throat. The pile under the figurative rug grew larger. "The kitchen girl," I said quietly. There was no need to explain further, for he was more or less omniscient in this castle of his.

He humphed, a wave of his hand flickering across the white of his mask. Eyes glowered behind porcelain in that sharp, horrendous shade of yellow, sheening like a stray cat on the hunt. He had no real need for a functioning face, I had mused idly, for his eyes could convey any emotion he needed, most of which fell under the spectrum of terror.

"Surely, Daroga, you aren't risking your life just to ask such absurd questions," he responded with open contempt. "I have no use for mediocrity like that girl. She is gone with her lover, I observed it myself."

I frowned slightly. "'No use'," I repeated, testing the words, as if they could mean anything else if I said them just a little differently.

His eyes snapped to mine and I found myself pinned in place. His gaze was a warning that his patience ran thin with me, as it often did. Tread softly, it said, for I walked upon a tightrope he would gleefully wrap around my neck and strangle me with.

It is with this considered that something fantastical happened, something I would have never anticipated.

For the coil wrapped upon my spine let loose and those smouldering coals caught fire. A volcanic course began to sear through the arteries of my body and the veins of my soul. Unwarranted memories flashed: the graze of fingers upon my now-dead wife's hip, the curve of cheek of the neighbour’s daughter a lifetime ago. Lusts of the first kind, memories best left in my inner sanctum.

As the gold-green glow of his animalistic eyes held me and set this wildfire ablaze, my chains became those not of the unwilling, but of the pliant.

I had felt this before, and now I knew it for what it was. 

Fear truly did grip me then, the kind of fear no rush of adrenaline could help me escape from. For it lived within me, this box that had opened could never be closed.

I had crossed the threshold from indifferent believer to fearful sinner. Allah, most high, most merciful, forgive your wayward servant.

The force of this should have brought me to my knees, but it was by His mercy alone that I did not weep outwardly as I did inwardly. All I could manage was a small cough in my throat, and those terror eyes narrowed. 

"I am a monster, Daroga," his voice was a growl, so low it blended into the silence, "but I am not a savage, one who would kill or rape with reckless abandon."

"You are no savage," I quietly agreed, for it was true, and the truth is what quelled the dread in my voice. I stood before a man who missed no detail and took no prisoners, though a prisoner I had become. I could not let him see what simmered beneath the surface of my skin. "And no monster either. If it weren't for the trust spread thin between us, I would not have disturbed you at all on this matter."

I caught the twitch in his eyes, almost imperceptible, before he took a long step towards me. A threat, I tried to tell myself, just a threat. The jerk of my muscles in those unnameable parts disagreed. That infernal mask seemed to fill my vision, choking out the darkness around it. Beyond the scent of dust and stale air in the room, something else touched my senses - musk, with the muted bite of salted spice. My mouth ran dry.

“Do not overstep and speak of trust,” came his warning, eyes burning. He did not,  _ could not _ know what fires they fed. “I tolerate your existence. Do not give me a reason to reconsider that.”

Despite his threats and the self-realizations I currently battled with, I sighed. He was nothing if not consistent. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Erik.”

It was to my utter surprise that he faltered. This was not the first time I had spoken to him like this, but it was the first time it had been met with anything other than contempt. But before I could even blink, the masks replaced - hesitation became derision, and porcelain became shrouded in darkness. I wondered if I had imagined it.

“You are a fool,” he muttered.

I was, wasn’t I?

I cannot fathom to explain why I did what I did next, for there is no reason I could possibly give. It was not a decision, that much I can say with confidence. It came as naturally as breathing, and so I did not question the instinct until it was too late.

There was only three feet of space between us, easily crossed with one step and my outreached hand. It was his shoulder that my palm came to rest on. 

And then, within a second, I became overwhelmed in the most curious way, for I became a slave to the colour yellow, of all things. Yellow, as the ice of his skin and the flame in my blood collided. Yellow, as electricity arched through that brief contact of palm against wool. Yellow, as anger seethed through his eyes. Yellow, clouding my vision, as leather-covered fingers clamped around my wrist and squeezed so tight I was sure he would break bone.

I should have been afraid, and perhaps I did seem so outwardly, with every hair raised and eyes wild. But that was not the truth, for it was pleasure that I felt. It nestled inside me, curled between my thighs, brought life to my tired existence. 

This pleasure was not pure, like what I had felt on my wedding night, buried between the legs of my dear wife. This was filth, the most satisfying soiling of my soul, an immorality that left my tongue weak and my throat closed. I am ashamed to admit that I forgot my silent prayers, as my weak soul revelled in the unholy.

I was so lost in my own madness that it took the crush of a tendon in my wrist to bring back reality. Pain seared through my arm, though it did not hold a candle to the violence in Erik's eyes. To comprehend that murderous intent was anguish itself, and it broke the last strings of the spell that bound me.

My eyes widened and I staggered away, clutching at my aching hand, sucking in air desperately. In the darkness I could make out the vague rise and fall of his chest, the tuck of his chin against his collar. Faintly, I realized I had never seen him breathe before. 

We languished in a stretching silence, the meaning of which I still cannot comprehend. Had he spewed vitriolic words or left at that very instant I would have understood, for that was in Erik's nature. But what stretched between us was pregnant in it’s intention, and I did not know what it would birth.

"Leave me be," he finally said, his voice oddly hoarse. 

Whatever had hovered in the air just a moment ago punctured and drained, leaving nothingness in its wake. His mask receded back to the shadows and his wool cloak whistled through the air. I knew then that he had departed.

And so I found myself alone in the rottings of that storage room, with only dust and rubbish as my companions. I hung my head and scraped at the sides of my scalp, searching for some semblance of control. I did not understand what had just transpired, both within me and between us.

I looked to the ceiling of that room, as if my God would care to hear the prayer of a sinner who had forgotten him, a sinner who was already thirty feet underground in the clutches of Ifrit. I was where I belonged, truly. Despite this I implored for deliverance, for the closure of this rose-lined path that lay before me, which sang it's tender siren call.

I am well into my forties. Death will come knocking in just two, maybe three decades more. These traitorous thoughts were not well suited to me, not when my grave approaches and the angels will be counting my sins soon enough. I had never held my faith close, much to the chagrin of my dearly devout mother, but her teachings had left their welts and I could not quiet their voices. They bit at my ears, warning and hissing, that this path that lay before me was unspeakable, forbidden, punishable by death.

And yet. And  _ yet. _ to feel these fires sing in my blood once more, to feel the wrap of youthful abandon around me, to relinquish to it’s forceful tug. It is a kind of magic, an intoxication. I hunger for the crime it promises.

How long had I followed this broken man named Erik? How long have I followed his shadow, just to be met with his disdain at every turn? I have lived in France for over a decade, all for his sake, and yet he has never even spoken my name.

But I will not leave. My reasons for staying have long faded and even if I could recall them, they have become worthless. For he has touched me, his fingers of ice have wrapped around my wrist, and with that crush I have become the pagan Pandora.

My thoughts thread further, but I cannot admit them. To do so would grant them the gift of reality, and I am too cowardly to face those truths. I have always been a coward; first as a child under the whips of the blackest month of Muharram, then as the daroga, slave to the Shah’s coin.

As I kneeled on that foul, chalk-like floor that day, I cupped my hands in an appeasement to the God I had forsaken. I begged him for the strength to resist the binds of heresy, for the strength to not become a festering boil upon my lineage. I no longer had kin or country, I had been banished to this foreign and wayward land. I have lost everything, and so I begged for the last of my dignity.

In the deepest reaches of my heart, I also begged for Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to [PagesofAngels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PagesofAngels/pseuds/PagesofAngels) for editing this for me. Check out her stuff!
> 
> Concrit welcome. Thanks for reading! ❤️


	2. Chapter 2

The second time, I could deny it no longer.

For two fortnights afterward I drifted in that deflated nothingness that had swallowed me whole, simply following the current of that cruel mistress called time.

I attempted, with every ounce of sincerity I could muster, to reconcile. I laid out my prayer mat five times each day, I read the holy verses for hours at a time, I followed every tenet of my faith to completion. Yet, if I am honest, I found none of the peace my mother had promised I would find when I prostrated before God. I am an earthly creature and the wicked pleasures of this life called to me. I could not hear the promises of heaven over their sinful din.

I filled my hours with searching for Erik, quietly at first, just to satisfy my own curiosity. I considered myself an expert at finding the hidden trails he left in his wake, and so I looked for his presence on the edges of his hidden doors, in the ropes of the rafters that were not quite tied as they were before, in cloudy fingerprints left on mirrors. I found nothing, of course. Perhaps he was being more rigorous with his trails, perhaps he had retreated to his lair. Or, perhaps, I was the one being hunted instead.

Worry crept into my heart as the days stretched on into weeks. I was familiar with his habits and I knew it was not unlike him to disappear like this for months at a time. Once, unwisely, I descended to the lowest levels of the cellars in search of him. It was then that I heard that terrible music, those discordant, inhumane notes. In the keys of the organ he had captured a lifetime of cruelty and grief, to be wielded as a whip against the imperfect hearts of men. There was no doubt in my mind who the composer was. Only one soul walked upon this earth, bearing the blessing of God and Satan both, who could conquer through music in this way. How desperately I wish I could erase those melodies from my mind.

Suffice it to say, I did not venture that deep again. Only once in these lonely weeks did I even pass the rat catcher’s domain, but the echoing memory of the music forced me to turn back. I feel no shame for my fear - those who have never heard that cursed composition will never know the sheer horror of it.

The marks on my wrist coloured viciously, then healed, and I quite lamented their loss. I had cherished them, the pitiful creature I am, and my conscience abhorred my admiration of another man’s touch. I existed upon a ceaseless tide: with the rise of the moon, I relinquished to the barbarity of my yearning; with the rise of the sun, God’s angels threatened me with hellfire for the very thoughts I dared to entertain.

My endless spiral was not in vain, however. Fate would have her twist. She descended upon me after two fortnights of patience and penance, and in her arms I found the strength to make my choice.

I had existed in waking dreams for hours that day. When I long for solitude, I wander the failsafe routes of the opera house, which are so rarely used in favour of the main hallways. These narrow paths lead to the mess halls, dormitories, workshops, and all the other inner workings of an undertaking the size of an opera production, but are rarely used in fear of the Ghost, something I am rather thankful for. The highest levels particularly are my sanctuary, far away from the bustle of workers and further still from Erik's kingdom. Foolishly, I assumed height would be a deterrent to him, and so I let my guard down.

The Zuhr sun was high in the sky, and I wished for its warmth in the cloistered, windowless halls. My only light was the glow of the gas lamps along the wall. It was then that something crept into my heart, an awareness that evades all tangible sense. It is a pause, the precipice before peace plunges into chaos. I peered into the darkness of the hallway that stretched before me.

A scuff sounded, almost inaudible, the simple scrape of leather sole against stone. It was careful, intentional. A strange, jittering calm settled over me, even as my pulse began to pound. I inhaled and mustered all my courage, while ignoring the sharpness that seemed to have embedded in my throat. “Erik?” I called out, my voice betraying me with it’s shake.

The silence pooled. I began to doubt myself as the seconds stretched into a minute. Slowly, I stepped under one of the lamps.

“Daroga,” came the answering whisper finally, in that velvet-lined voice that I would follow gladly across the river Styx itself.

In the abyss ahead, I spotted the shift of black upon black, marred by that signature glimmer of white. He emerged from the shadows in all his gaunt, towering glory, stalking towards me, the lamps struggling to light the void of his form. Those ethereal eyes found their mark upon my form. Any angels that still lingered over me fled.

Separation had not dulled his strength over me; if anything, it strengthened it. What previously took a touch of my wrist before I now felt at the very sight of him, first with the quicken of my heart, and then the tightening of that coil that he has unknowingly wound around my spine. It has become an implant, for I know not where it begins and I end. In his presence its embers ignited once again, thrumming a low heat through me.

I could almost hear my mother’s voice reciting in the recesses of my mind. Azrael approached, she warned, the harbinger has come for your reckoning. Ah Mâdar, my deepest condolences. Your son swells between his legs at the sight of death.

I did not realize that I had stopped breathing until he came to rest three paces away from me, barely visible in the shadows. It was a deliberate distance, one I could not close without his notice, but near enough that his full effect permeated through me.

His eyes conveyed nothing when I found the courage to meet them, but I knew he came for my slaughter, in one form or another. With every angle of his body poised for the hunt, how could he not be? He was a bow drawn and fitted with a barbed arrow, aimed squarely at my chest.

“I would speak with you,” Erik finally said, looking down upon me. He wielded those few inches of height between us with such power.

I could not manage words, I simply nodded.

A faint hum left his throat, a perfection in sound that lulled my senses to rest, as he began to circle around his cornered prey.

“I have become curious,” he murmured. His hands rested behind him, one tapping on the back of the other in time with every step. 

Vertigo threatened at the edges of my mind, but I was kept aloft by the silk chiffon of his voice. "Yes?"

“Why do you linger here, Daroga?” His words were surgical in their incisions, and there was nothing in nature that could compare to their beauty. “Why do you wander these halls like a stray mutt, unwanted and despised?”

I cleared my throat with great difficulty, and managed to find the strength to set my jaw. It was an insult, but how could I take offense? “You know why I am here, Erik. I am here to ensure that the Shah does not -”

My words stopped of their own accord when he took one approaching step, his unblinking eyes fixed upon me. I did struggle so very much to keep myself from withering.

“The same excuse every time,” he said quietly. I could not read him, even as his head cocked to appraise me. "I find myself hard-pressed to believe in your sense of duty. Once, I had believed it. Not anymore."

My mind stuck on his last words. I answered with only a lowering of my gaze, distantly noting the impeccable tailoring of his trousers.

"I take pride in this domain of mine, Daroga,” he continued, his voice low and unkind. “You cannot know the sacrifices I made for it. And yet you continue to intrude upon it. You know what you risk -" He punctuated his words with the fix of his eyes, that glare of death, "- and yet you continue. I would know why."

God above, forgive me for the way my blood heated at the sight of this man's ire. The jeopardy of my beating heart lingered between us, and yet my only conscious thought was what his mouth would feel like under my fingertips.

Erik asked for an answer I could not give. I could not give a name for what I felt, not even here in the face of my reaper. And so I remained silent.

He waited for a response. Time ticked, somewhere between a minute and eternity. I stood and awaited my judgement.

It was a gift, really, when my skull collided with the stone wall behind me. My vision flashed and whitened upon the impact, air flying out of my lungs. He trapped me in that acrid amber stare, the limbal ring of his irises almost glowing as they drew closer. I felt the slide of leather against my neck, gentle at first, then clamping down. Every edge of his form screamed offense, with sinew pulling and muscles working.

My body is a weak, pathetic thing, I will admit it freely. It is a slave to the coil, that hateful  _ thing,  _ that nested within me like a welcome parasite and commandeered my free will. When his impossibly long fingers pressed harder upon my bare throat, my lungs willingly ceased. When his chill started to seep into my skin, heat crawled through me like a thousand little webs. When the corner of his mouth twisted upwards, it brought forth the greatest betrayal of all: that twisting, surging, pumping of blood between my thighs.

I am a wretch.

To my utter fascination, Erik's own eyes widened under his mask. A thrill beat between us, forming a terrible river that coursed through our contact. He stepped towards me, and I so longed to close the inches of gap between our bodies.

I could not hide my reaction to him, physical or mental, and I found I had no wish to. The strain between us, between my legs, demanded at the forefront of my mind and screamed it's animal needs. There was no fight in me this time, no whispers or warnings to heed, only the sound of my heart thundering in my ears.

I could no longer hide behind the veil of my broken faith. I could no longer deny it.

His tide overtook me and I drowned in the depths of his eyes, even as my lungs burned and my vision spun. He would kill me, I knew, but the choice between life and Erik was simple. If it was death I faced by his hand, I would fall to my knees and welcome it with open arms. Should he have asked it of me, I would scrape off every inch of my skin in his name.

Seconds passed. Did they become a minute?

There was no protest, no struggle. Life began to leave me, and he devoured it.

Then, as the pain edged towards unbearable, wonder filled his eyes. His grip slackened, to my utter astonishment, and air rushed back into my collapsing chest. I sucked it in desperately, but I made no move to escape from the clutch of his hand. If anything, I relished it.

His head tilted in that imperceptible way, and I watched on as his attention drifted to his thumb. Shock, paralyzing yet enveloping, ran through me as he began to trace it up my skin, so slowly I almost believed he was savouring it. He wove into my beard, finally coming to rest against my jaw. The path he carved left a shivering burn in its wake, drawing a sigh from my lips.

His eyes snapped to mine at the sound. Something flashed deep within him that I could not fathom; an enigma, unknowable and far beyond my reach.

He lingered so long against my skin. In that moment I lived a lifetime, memorizing every detail, from the snarl teasing at his wasted mouth, to the quiver of his cloak upon his every movement. I was easily read - there was no secret in the flush of my face and the heat pulsing at my core. He was the picture of composure, however, and betrayed nothing to me.

"Why?" He finally murmured, and I shuddered my eyes closed in the pleasure of his voice. "When it is forbidden to you?"

I breathed out. "There is no controlling these things, Erik."

He did not look away from my mouth as I spoke. That thumb, that blessed, accursed thumb, dragged roughly across my cheek to part my lips. He held my eyes, then pushed in harshly, leather scraping against teeth and tongue, the rest of his fingers digging into the column of my throat in exquisite pain. I felt engulfed, wholly, utterly. The taste of earth, the smell of salt, the pinch of ice against my tongue.

He assessed my reaction with an uncharacteristic anticipation, eyes flickering over my face in a pattern I could not understand. With an eagerness that did not become a man of my age, I pressed the flat of my tongue against his thumb and became limp in his hold.

I overstepped.

To my great misery, something dulled in his eyes at the motion, and he slipped out that precious digit to trail over my cheek again, leaving dampness in its wake. His hand finally released me, and I longed to pull it back to my neck, to press into him, to feel every edge of his body against my own inferior flesh. I craved him so deeply, so completely - not even the poppy could compare to the hold he had over me.

My cowardice, however, kept me frozen in place. My longing found no voice. How I regret the things left unspoken in that moment.

Instead, I watched detachedly as Erik pulled out his handkerchief and wiped me off his glove.

"Think on this, Daroga," he said quietly, with the same hoarseness from the cellar lacing his voice. "There is no going back on this path."

He glanced up at me. He was unreadable, but for the first time, he was not alien. Whatever thoughts lay in his head were as human as mine, a part of me imagined that perhaps they were even as primal.

"I will not ask for your answer now,” he finished. His eyes lingered for a moment, flicking briefly to my mouth, before turning away.

"Erik." My voice was barely a whisper. He paused, turning his head towards me. "What is this?"

Silence descended and extended between us, one that choked deeper than Erik’s own hand. I was grateful that he could not see me fully, as I was certain a tremble ran through me.

Finally, he hummed quietly in the back of his throat. "I am... unsure."

He did not give me the opportunity to speak. Before I could even gather my senses, his long strides had taken him halfway down the ill-lit hall, his cloak whipping in his wake. I made no movement nor sound. I merely listened to his footsteps ringing and echoing in my ears. I closed my eyes, waiting for the moment where I could hear them no longer.

At the moment of his departure, the void ruptured. My conscience rushed in to fill it with the voices of those who I have loved and lost, begging for me to turn back. They hissed and bit, pleaded and cried. They screamed at the crime I longed to commit, they wept for the atonement I would have to pay.

But there was no return. Fate, that goddess, spun my threads, and she had bound me to serve. Whether it was flesh upon flesh that he craved, or the euphoria of two souls intertwining, I had no doubt I would acquiesce to every whim.

And so I secured my passage to hell, in return for the echoes of heaven that lay in Erik’s hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Helloitskrisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloitskrisha) for beta help!
> 
> Some elements inspired by [Catcorsair's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catcorsair) work, credit due!


End file.
